


how long and dreary is the night

by ExultedShores



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon compliant up until season 8, F/M, Mentions of everyone else on Team Dany, Minor Daario Naharis/Daenerys Targaryen, Minor Grey Worm/Missandei, Missing Scene, Missing Scene Collection, Winter Solstice, because season 8 wasn't canon compliant either, except seasons don't work that way in Westeros, they are precious and must be protected
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-18 16:23:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21680266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExultedShores/pseuds/ExultedShores
Summary: “Down in the South, they call it the Stranger’s Solstice. Up North, we simply refer to it as the Long Night. To us, the solstice is a celebration of life. A reminder that even in the darkest of times, when it seems like the sun will never again rise, there are people willing to build a fire with you and wait out the darkness.”En route to Vaes Dothrak, Jorah tells Daenerys of an age-old holiday celebrated in Westeros. Throughout the years, the celebration becomes a well-loved tradition for Daenerys and those who follow her - though some solstices are more memorable than others.
Relationships: Jorah Mormont/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 43
Kudos: 89
Collections: A song of frosted bear kisses and dragon roasted chestnuts





	how long and dreary is the night

**Author's Note:**

> We interrupt ladymelodrama's amazing Love Actually inspired multichapter fic to bring you my humble contribution to this wonderful winter Jorleesi fest! ^_^
> 
> This is a collection of 'missing scenes' meant to fit seamlessly within the Game of Thrones canon - except for season 8, which doesn't exist. The scenes are numbered in accordance with their corresponding seasons and they take place somewhere in the first half of that season.

**Zero**

* * *

He is sharing stories of war and battle with Rakharo when she comes to find him.

“Ser Jorah, do you have a moment?”

“Of course, Khaleesi,” he is swift to appease her. He shares a few more words with Rakharo in the strange tongue of the Dothraki she still has little grasp of, and Rakharo laughs and clasps his shoulder, bowing briefly before his Khaleesi before he leaves Jorah’s tent.

“What troubles you?” Jorah asks, patting the pillows Rakharo just vacated.

Daenerys sits beside him and shows him the book she brought with her, one of the three he gifted her for her wedding. “I’ve been reading, Ser,” she says. “The books you gave me are wonderful, but I wish to know so much more of Westeros. Would you indulge me?”

He smiles, bashfully so. “You honour me. I’ll be glad to tell you whatever I know.”

She returns his smile, so very grateful for his presence in her life. Ever since they left Pentos, she’s been struggling to adapt to life in the khalasar. Everything from the food to the language to the people – _her_ people now – is foreign to her, and to have someone here who knows her homeland, who speaks her tongue – and who does not treat her as horrid as her brother does – is a blessing she wouldn’t know what to do without.

“Tell me about the holidays,” she requests, flipping through the book to find the right page. “It says here that the Westerosi celebrates seven every year, in accordance with the Faith of the Seven, but it doesn’t go into detail.”

Jorah’s eyebrows rise. “You wish to know about Westerosi holidays, Khaleesi?”

The incredulity in his tone irks her. “Is that a problem, Ser Jorah?”

“No, no,” he assures her hastily. “I was merely expecting your interest to lie with rulers or histories rather than the common people’s festivities.”

“I know about rulers. I know my ancestors came to Westeros from Old Valyria and united the Seven Kingdoms into one realm. I know about the Iron Throne and the wars waged to claim it and to keep it,” Daenerys recites. Viserys will never let her forget those stories for as long as they both live. “But I don’t know the Westerosi culture, Ser. I do not know what food the people eat, or what clothes they wear, or what days they look forward to. They’re my people, yet I don’t know them at all.”

Ser Jorah regards her with fondness in his expression, with warmth and kindness and something else she cannot quite place, something she’s certain wasn’t there before. “Forgive me,” he murmurs. “I’m not sure I can help you.”

Her brow furrows. “Why ever not?”

“Because the Faith of the Seven and its customs are Southern culture, Khaleesi. In the North, people still believe in the Old Gods.”

Daenerys raises an eyebrow. “And the Old Gods don’t inspire frivolity?”

Jorah chuckles. “Not in the slightest.”

“You don’t have any holidays in the North, then?”

“None but the dark solstice, Khaleesi.”

The term rings familiar. “I think there was something in here about the solstice,” she says, skimming through the book. “They celebrate it in the South, too.”

Jorah nods. “Down in the South, they call it the Stranger’s Solstice,” he explains. “They say it is the one day the Stranger is stronger than all of the other Gods combined, and inviting them into your house is the surest of follies. The people don’t work during the solstice, for being out in the open makes it easier for the Stranger to find you. They lock their doors and close their shutters, and they eat nothing that was once alive for fear of bringing death into their being.”

It sounds more like a horror story than a tale of whimsy. “That… doesn’t seem very festive.”

“I’ve always found it peculiar, myself,” Jorah agrees. “But then I’ve never been South at the time of the solstice, so perhaps it is not as bleak as it seems.”

“And the dark solstice is celebrated differently in the North?”

“Aye. Up North, we simply refer to it as the Long Night. To us, the solstice is not a reminder of mortality; rather, it is a celebration of life. A reminder that even in the darkest of times, when it seems like the sun will never again rise, there are people willing to build a fire with you and wait out the darkness.”

There is a sense of wistfulness in his tone that makes her heart ache for him. “How did you celebrate it?” she asks, but gently, not a demand for knowledge but a request for a part of himself.

“On Bear Island, we light a bonfire,” he supplies readily, though his tone wavers. “Fewer than five hundred people inhabit the island, and we – _they_ all come together to light the fire every year, the very moment the sun disappears behind the hills. Each individual brings whatever they can spare, be it food or drink or timber, and the fire is kept alight until the sun rises the next day.”

She’s never seen him look as content as he does now, recalling those days from his homeland, his eyes glazed over, his gaze looking through her. “On the morrow, people exchange gifts. Trinkets, mostly. Sometimes no more than an embrace, or a promise. They’re meant as a token of affection, a way to tell someone that they are among the people you would want beside you when the world has gone dark. My father –”

He stops short, jaws snapping shut with an audible click. “That’s how the solstice is celebrated on Bear Island,” he states, his tone formal, the warmth in his eyes pushed back by pain. “It’s not exactly the same in the rest of the North, but I never spent a solstice away from home until I… came to Essos.”

Gingerly, she lays a hand on his forearm. “I’m sorry, Ser. I didn’t mean to stir up bad memories.”

“Only regrets, Khaleesi,” he sighs wearily. “I brought shame upon myself, upon my House. It is no wonder there is no one left who would join me in the darkness.”

“I would.” She says it without thinking, but the words are far from untrue. “I would, Ser.”

His eyes again shimmer with that emotion she cannot place. “You shouldn’t.”

But she would. And she _will_.

* * *

**One**

* * *

Her first solstice is not what she expected it to be.

She had hoped, foolishly, that Viserys might appreciate a chance to celebrate a holiday of their homeland, that he would want to sit with her and Ser Jorah around the fire, eating meat from an animal other than a horse, telling stories of Westeros and its people. But of course, she should have known her brother considers himself above such ‘ridiculous peasant frivolities’. Kings don’t have anything to fear from the Stranger, after all, and for fuck’s sake, Dany, who in their right mind would want to light a bonfire in this pisspot of a sweltering continent, think for once in your life.

Her husband won’t be attending either, laughed when she had Irri translate her intentions to him, claiming no Khal will ever fear the darkness. Her handmaidens and Rakharo would come with her, if she commanded it, but they too do not understand why she wishes to light a fire and wait out the night. The night is for sleeping, Khaleesi, you will be too tired to ride tomorrow, it would be foolish.

But Daenerys is nothing if not determined, and she goes to look for Ser Jorah by herself when the sun has nearly disappeared behind the horizon, her arms filled with kindling and a wineskin full of fermented mare’s milk and a hunk of raw goat meat wrapped in leaves.

She finds him at the very edge of the camp, stacking wood for a small fire in a shallow pit. “Is that fire going to be big enough, Ser?”

He’s on his feet immediately to help her carry the items she brought. “Lighting a bonfire just for myself seemed a bit excessive, Khaleesi.”

“For the two of us,” she corrects him. “I brought wood and food and drink.”

“So you did.” His face lights up at the sight of the goat meat. “Will your brother be joining us?”

Daenerys busies herself with distributing the kindling. “No,” she sighs. “He wasn’t very fond of the concept. And neither was Khal Drogo.”

He kneels beside her, continues to stack the small logs and twigs. “The Dothraki revere the night. It is at night when they can see their fallen brethren riding through the Night Lands in the form of stars. To wane off the darkness in this manner would go against their ideals. And that’s not to mention their abhorrence of gifts.”

Her hands still. “What do the Dothraki have against gifts?”

“It depends on whom they receive gifts from,” Jorah tells her. “Those who consider themselves strong will see a gift from someone they believe weak an insult. A Khal may gift whatever he wants to whomever he wants, but he will never desire a thing in return. A slave may receive gifts from any member of the herd, but cannot give to anyone but their peers.”

“Because the Dothraki value strength above all,” Daenerys mutters as she returns to picking apart the dried grass. It explains why only she received gifts at her wedding feast. And it is a stroke of fortune Ser Jorah tells her this now; she did, in fact, have a solstice gift prepared for her husband. “Where do I fall on this hierarchy, Ser?”

“Low,” he doesn’t mince his words. “Higher than the slaves and the wives of the other riders, but below every male in the khalasar.”

“And you, Ser?”

“I am not a member of the khalasar, Khaleesi,” he says. “A gift from an outsider is worse than a gift from a slave.”

“No,” she shakes her head, “I meant, would you take offense if I were to present you with a gift?”

Jorah chuckles, as though the question is absurd. “Of course not, Khaleesi,” he murmurs – and there is that warmth in his eyes again. “I would consider it nothing short of an honour.”

“Because I outrank you?”

He shakes his head. “You are a wonderful, kind, headstrong woman, Daenerys. It would be an honour to receive a gift from you because it means this exiled knight was in your thoughts, if only for a moment.”

Daenerys laughs. If she doesn’t laugh it off, she’ll fall prey to thoughts she has no business thinking. “You should have made your living as a poet, Ser.”

He returns her smile, but there is a tinge of sadness behind it. “If I were a poet, Khaleesi, the Dothraki would never have let me travel with the khalasar.”

“In that case, I’m glad you aren’t a poet.”

“As am I.”

He lights the fire with a practised hand as the last rays of sunlight disappear behind the horizon, and Daenerys pierces the goat’s meat with a spit and places it above the fire to cook. Perhaps her hands come a bit too close to the flames, perhaps she ought to be uncomfortable, sweating from the new source of unnecessary heat in the savannah, but she doesn’t feel any of it. The Blood of the Dragon, it must be. That Viserys cannot handle the warmth is testament to his unworth.

But Ser Jorah is not a Targaryen, and Daenerys follows him when he sits down a fair distance away from the fire to escape the heat.

They watch the flames for a while, passing the wineskin of fermented mare’s milk back and forth. She doesn’t much care for the taste – it’s sour, nothing like the sweet summer wines Illyrio served in Pentos – but it helps settle her stomach, as though it calms her unborn child. Perhaps she ought to drink some before the ceremony at Vaes Dothrak, when she is expected to eat the entire heart of a horse – but stars above, she really doesn’t want to think about that right now.

“Would you tell me something about Westeros, Ser?”

“What would you like to know, Khaleesi?”

“Anything,” she says promptly. “Something nice, if you could.”

He hums, takes another swig of the alcohol as he considers her request. “I won a tourney once.”

She’s read about tourneys; they’re grand events that span days, knights from all over the Seven Kingdoms competing in several contests, with the joust being the main event. “Regale me.”

“It was my first tourney,” Ser Jorah begins, a faint smile tugging at his lips at the memory. “I’d only just been knighted for my service beating back the Greyjoy Rebellion, and there was a tourney at Lannisport to celebrate the victory. I entered the joust to…” Here he stops, his smile weakening. “To impress a lady.”

She can’t fathom why he suddenly looks so sad. “How romantic, Ser.”

He laughs, the sound harsher than she’s used to. “Hardly. I’ve merely too soft a soul,” he says. “That’s what my aunt Maege always used to say, anyway.”

She understands what his aunt means. Ser Jorah is all hard lines on the outside, sharp cheekbones and sharper eyes still, his posture rigid, his hands calloused, his body strong. But she’s come to know him as a kind, gentle man, a man who never makes her feel anything other than the royalty she is, a man who speaks to her with respect, a man with whom she feels completely safe. A soft soul, indeed. “You ought to consider it a merit,” she attempts to reassure him. “Even if your lady couldn’t see that.”

Jorah shakes his head. “She could. That was the problem.”

Oh. Stars, he must be talking about his lady wife – the woman who left him because he wasn’t wealthy enough, the woman for whom he sunk so low as to sell men into slavery. A woman Daenerys dislikes more than she reasonably should, given the fact that she’s never even met her.

“Forgive me, Khaleesi,” Jorah sighs, trying – and failing – to bring some cheer back into his smile. “You asked for a nice story, I shouldn’t have… The mare’s milk must be addling my mind.”

Daenerys takes the wineskin back from him, but doesn’t drink. Her child is calm. “You still won the joust. It’s not an easy feat, Ser. I’m sure even Viserys would be impressed.”

He chuckles at that, faintly but earnestly. “In truth, I was fortunate Barristan the Bold didn’t participate. No man alive could best him at a joust. Or on the battlefield, for that matter.”

She’s heard the name before. Viserys spoke of him once or twice, with as much respect as her brother can manage. “Well, he’s a Kingsguard, isn’t he? He would have to be difficult to defeat.”

“I unseated a Kingsguard that day, Khaleesi, and broke nine lances against another. But Ser Barristan is a cut above the rest.”

“You broke _nine_ lances?” It’s probably not the detail she ought to be focusing on, but the mere idea of two knights going nine rounds of a joust without toppling off their horses is ludicrous. “Against whom?”

Jorah falters, wordlessly asks for the wineskin back and takes another long drink before he answers. “Jaime Lannister.”

Jaime Lannister. The one who murdered her father in cold blood, the knight who was tasked with protecting his King but instead stuck a dagger into his back. She’s dreamt of him before, a faceless, cruel man whose hands run red with her family’s blood. There is no greater evil in this world to her than Jaime Lannister.

And Ser Jorah defeated him.

She grasps his forearm, tighter than perhaps appropriate, and the sudden touch nearly has him dropping the wineskin. “Promise me something, Ser,” she requests – _demands_ , really, though she has no right to make demands of her brother’s sworn knight. “Promise me something this solstice.”

He is taken aback by her intensity, she can tell, but when he lays his hand atop hers, there is no hesitation in his expression. “Anything, Khaleesi.”

“If – _when_ we reclaim the Seven Kingdoms,” she begins, because she will go home, she _will_ , “I want to meet him. I want to look Jaime Lannister in the eye and ask him why he did what he did.” She sets her jaw, but cannot keep her eyes dry. “And I would want you by my side when I do.”

To protect her. To take a sword for her if need be, yes, but mostly just to remind her that Jaime Lannister is not invincible, that he can be defeated – and that she has the support of a warrior who has done exactly that.

“Of course,” he is swift to agree, without a single moment of hesitation. “I will stand at your side as long as you’ll have me.”

That promise is his first solstice gift to her.

And seven years later, he will keep it.

* * *

**Two**

* * *

Her second solstice nearly passes her by unnoticed.

She doesn’t know what day it is, hardly remembers what month it is, even. All she knows is sand and heat and thirst and pain and loss – and she would have succumbed to it, would have lied down and closed her eyes never to open them again, if it wasn’t for the steadfast presence of Jorah Mormont at her side. Her strength is all him.

And now he’s gone.

Not for long. Stars, but she hopes he won’t be gone long. But with Rakharo dead, the remnants of his meagre funeral pyre smouldering still, and with Kovarro and Aggo out searching for civilisation, Jorah is the only one amongst them strong and brave enough to ride out, to search for sources of water and food and shade in the vicinity. He never goes far, can’t risk getting swallowed up by the Red Waste as so many have before him, but Daenerys worries for him all the same, especially when he rides out before sunrise.

She gently strokes the spine of one of her dragons, the black one, the one she named after her late husband, trying to harness the strength she needs from her child while Jorah is gone. The smoke from Rakharo’s pyre stings her eyes, Irri’s sobs grate her ears, the sand is coarse underneath her and her throat is impossibly dry, and stars, but she’s worried, for her dragons and her people and her bloodriders – for her knight, even if he needs her concern least of all.

And that, thank the stars, is a truth even now, as the first rays of the day’s light appear on the horizon. The sound of approaching hooves has her on her feet immediately, and the relief she feels at the sight of the yellow shirt Ser Jorah has taken a shine to is staggering. Or perhaps it’s simply the starvation that causes her to stagger.

Jorah dismounts, the lean chestnut stallion Drogo gifted him their last living horse now. He still looks as haggard as he did when he left, but his eyes shine more brightly than she’s seen them in a long, long time. “Khaleesi,” he rasps, “I found something.”

His careful optimism is infectious, and Daenerys smiles for what feels like the first time in weeks. “What did you find?”

“There’s a ruined city to the north,” he tells her – and that truly is excellent news. “I cannot be sure how many resources we’ll find there, it was too dark to see, but…”

He reaches into his saddlebag, pulls from it a small object bundled carefully in cloth and hands it to her. “I’m afraid this is the only solstice gift I have for you, Khaleesi.”

“The solstice,” she murmurs as she takes the bundle from him. “I’d forgotten.”

She unwinds the cloth, pushes it back to find – oh stars, she can hardly believe it – _a peach_. It is but a single small overripe fruit, something that would have been thrown to the animals back in Pentos, and yet it brings her more joy now than anything has in far too long.

“It was the last fruit on the tree. The season of harvest has long gone,” Ser Jorah says. “But I think there might be more trees around, and a source of water to sustain them. At the very least it will be a good spot to await Aggo and Kovarro.”

It sounds like a dream. “Is it far?”

Jorah’s lips purse, the way they tend to do when he is forced to give her news he knows she won’t like. “Riding, a few hours. Walking, it will be a full day, if not longer. And in this heat…”

He doesn’t need to finish his sentence. The days may be short, but they burn intensely hot. Were the light solstice upon them rather than the dark, Daenerys would have no illusions of their continued survival. “We shall wait until sunset, then,” she decides. The camp is already made, in any case. “We’ll use the night to travel.”

Jorah nods, pleased with her decree. “Is there any water left for the horse?”

There’s hardly any water left for the humans – but they cannot afford to lose their last horse. “Jhiqui would know. I asked her to divide the rations.”

He takes the reigns of his horse and begins to lead the tired animal back towards the camp. “You should eat that peach before it rots,” he calls over his shoulder. “You need your strength, Khaleesi.”

Her strength is nothing more and nothing less than Ser Jorah himself, but she does as he says anyway, because she knows he is right. A Khal who cannot ride is no Khal – and she does not want to imagine what a Khaleesi who cannot walk will be called.

The peach has ripened far too much, its taste almost overwhelmingly sweet, but Daenerys savours it all the same, relishes in the juice that glides down her parched throat. It is a treat like no other here in the middle of the Red Waste. An exceptional gift, to be sure, though what she values most is what this peach represents: _hope_.

In the end, they never even set course for the fallen city, not when Kovarro returns to them astride a fresh horse, bringing tales of a city that is still alive and thriving.

But she will never forget that peach, the fruit that first made her believe she might lead her people out of the Red Waste alive.

* * *

**Three**

* * *

Her third solstice is the happiest day she’s known in years.

They’re en route from Astapor to Yunkai, she and her people – her _army_. Eight thousand Unsullied have chosen to fight for her, as free men. Her dragons are growing bigger and stronger every day; her khalasar still follows her guidance; she has found a new friend in Missandei of Naath and a new advisor in Ser Barristan the Bold.

And at her right hand, as always, is Ser Jorah Mormont, steadfast and unyielding.

Today, she has halted her troops early, had them set up camp and rest. It was Ser Barristan who requested to have the tents erected before sundown; he’s spent nearly his whole life in King’s Landing, has adhered to the Stranger’s Solstice since he was but a boy, and Daenerys could not begrudge him the desire to follow his faith, even so far from home.

She would have appreciated his company during the solstice, but she is far from alone. Missandei has opted to spend the night out with her and Ser Jorah, curious about the Westerosi tradition, and the recently elected Commander of her Unsullied volunteered to stay with them as well. He says it is to ensure the Queen’s safety, as most of the others will be sleeping, though Daenerys suspects him of having another reason to join them – a reason with dark skin and curly hair and a kind voice, that is.

The fire they light is sizeable, though not a bonfire, simply because there aren’t enough trees around. They may have left the Red Waste, but these are still the plains of Essos, not the lush forests of Bear Island, and they’ll have to make do.

Ser Jorah certainly doesn’t seem to mind; he looks more content than she’s seen him in a long time, perhaps ever, his cheeks flushed from the fire and the wine, and he’s speaking animatedly with Missandei, telling her in detail how the dark solstice is celebrated on his native isle at her request.

On Daenerys’ other side, Grey Worm has his eyes firmly on the fire, his face contorted into the scowl she’s become accustomed to. “You haven’t eaten anything,” she observes, speaking quietly in Valyrian. “Or drank.”

“I do not drink,” he responds immediately, firmly. “And this food, it is…”

His frown deepens as he regards the meats and fruits Daenerys had her handmaidens prepare for the evening. “It seems wasteful to you,” she concludes, correctly.

“It is more than we need to sustain ourselves.”

He sounds genuinely disgruntled, and Daenerys laughs – has to laugh, because if she doesn’t, she’ll cry. She knows full well the Unsullied were horribly mistreated back in Astapor, made to believe they were nothing but vermin, not even allowed to keep a name for more than a day, but it’s moments like this that remind her just how awful the ‘Good Masters’ were. These men have never gotten to truly enjoy _anything_.

She reaches for the food that’s been laid out, grabs a piece of meat on the bone – she couldn’t even say which animal it once belonged to, but she’s certain, at least, that it wasn’t a horse – and she proffers it to Grey Worm. “This evening isn’t about being practical,” she explains. “It’s about enjoying ourselves, about being together. You should eat because it’s what you want to do, not because you have to.”

He considers her words carefully, then shakes his head at the meat, choosing instead to take a slice of honey melon from the platter. “We had to eat a lot of meat for training,” he says. “Fruit was for keeping healthy, but it was always unripe. I… never had melon before we left Astapor. It is sweet. I like that.”

“Have as much as you want,” Daenerys proclaims immediately. “There’s more than enough for everyone, and we should reach Yunkai soon enough in any case.”

Grey Worm’s lips curl up into the slightest of smiles before he sinks his teeth into the melon, and she beams at him in turn, tearing into the meat. It’s goat, she thinks, though then it doesn’t matter – after completing the horrid ritual in Vaes Dothrak, eating a raw heart whole, any meat that isn’t horse is good meat if you ask her.

She’s nearly cleaned the bone when Missandei laughs, louder than Daenerys has ever heard her laugh before. “You did not!”

“I’m afraid I did,” Ser Jorah chuckles. “It’s a stroke of luck I wasn’t killed on the spot.”

Daenerys can’t help but interject. “Who would have killed you on the spot?”

The question comes out harsher than she intended – perhaps, she would not ever admit, because the idea of anyone killing Ser Jorah is the most unbearable thing she can imagine.

He turns to her, a grin on his face, his eyes aglow in the light of the fire, and she swallows thickly. _There are times when I look at you, and I still can’t believe you’re real_ , he told her back in Qarth, and she turned away from him then, had to turn away for fear of being drawn in instead, and the same feeling overwhelms her now, as he leans over conspiratorially, emboldened by the wine.

Perhaps just for tonight, she’ll allow herself to be drawn in.

“When I first began travelling with the Dothraki,” he begins, Missandei still uncontrollably giggling in the background, “there was a slight… mishap.”

She arches an eyebrow. “How so?”

His grin widens. “Not long after I joined up with Khal Drogo’s khalasar, I fell ill. You know better than anyone that the Dothraki cuisine takes some… getting used to. And I never even had to eat a horse’s heart.”

His voice is laced with no small amount of awe, and she smiles. “That’s only because you helped me practice, Ser. Do you remember the first time you brought me a bowl of clotted blood?”

“Like it was yesterday,” he chuckles. She’d retched everything right back up, her stomach too tender to even deal with the odour. “I was in a similar predicament, back then. Couldn’t keep so much as a morsel down for the life of me. It was fortunate I could still ride, at least, or I would have been left behind.”

How different her life would be now, if Ser Jorah hadn’t remained with the khalasar until her wedding. If she were even still alive at all.

“The Khal was kind enough to lend me one of his favourite slaves for the evenings, to see to my needs so that I might recover my strength quicker. The very first night she came to me, I asked her if she would please empty out my chamber pot. That’s what I intended to ask, at least. But I wasn’t fluent in Dothraki yet, so instead of ‘empty’ – ‘ _ammenat_ ’ – I said ‘ _ammemat_ ’, which means –”

“To play an instrument,” Daenerys draws the conclusion herself. “You asked her to…”

“To play me a song on my filled chamber pot, yes.”

Her hand flies to her mouth, her shoulders shaking from the effort to contain her laughter. “How did she take it?” she manages to ask, her voice strangled.

Jorah drains the last of the wine from his goblet. “She was confused, of course. Thankfully she and the Khal both thought it was a combination of fever delusions and cultural difference. When I felt well enough to join the warriors for an evening meal, I was presented with some of the more musically inclined slaves playing a lovely tune on overturned chamber pots. Empty ones, that is.”

And that – that is the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard, the mental image of it utterly absurd, and Daenerys cannot stop herself any longer. She bursts into laughter, a fit of giggles growing into a loud, snorting laugh when Missandei and Jorah join in. She can’t remember the last time she laughed this hard, this unrestrained – perhaps she never has before. Surely Viserys has never given her any reason to when he was alive, and since his death, she’s been a Khaleesi, a Queen, the Mother of Dragons and the Breaker of Chains, and she simply hasn’t found herself with much reason to laugh like this. Perhaps she just hasn’t allowed herself to.

It feels good to laugh, and she lets herself lean into Jorah, not as subconsciously as she’d like to believe. He steadies her against his chest, lets her laugh until she cries, the sound of his own chuckles rumbling in her ears. It feels like a long time before she can breathe again, and she half-heartedly wipes at her tears.

Beside her, Grey Worm looks at her as though she’s grown an extra head, his fourth slice of melon uneaten in his hands. “What is funny?” he asks, in Valyrian.

Jorah looks over at him, opens his mouth then closes it again. “I’m afraid my Valyrian is even worse than my Dothraki was back then.”

“I’ll explain,” Missandei offers swiftly. “If you don’t mind, of course, Ser Jorah.”

He waves away her concern. “Please, go ahead. If my mishaps can force a smile out of the Commander it’ll be well worth it.”

Missandei rises from her spot next to Jorah, coming to rest beside Grey Worm instead, and begins to repeat Jorah’s tale in Valyrian to him. Daenerys only listens with half an ear, a surge of drowsiness overtaking her. It is the middle of the night, after all, and she has a fire to keep her warm, a belly full of food, and a solid presence at her back. Ser Jorah’s shoulder, she finds, makes for a most excellent pillow.

He wraps an arm around her and kisses the top of her head, an indulgence he only allows himself because of the wine, and as Daenerys drifts away, she realises that the security she feels now is the greatest gift he could ever give her. She knows he loves her – that day in Qarth left no room for doubt – but she also knows he would never do anything to make her feel uncomfortable, will wait for her to initiate anything, even if that won’t ever happen. There is not a man in the Known World with whom she feels as safe as she does with him.

And if that isn’t a gift in the harsh, unforgiving world, she doesn’t know what is.

* * *

**Four**

* * *

She forgets about her fourth solstice.

They’ve only just taken Meereen, the last and greatest of the cities making up Slaver’s Bay, and Daenerys is ecstatic. She conquered the entirety of the Bay, set free every man, woman, and child kept in chains, and now the Great Pyramid is hers, a palace to house the Queen of Meereen. She is the Mother of Dragons, the Breaker of Chains, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea – and soon enough, the sovereign of Westeros as well, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lady Regnant of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.

She couldn’t have done it alone, of course. She’d be nowhere without Ser Jorah, without Ser Barristan and Missandei and her khalasar and her Unsullied – but this particular victory she owes to Daario Naharis more than anyone, he who slew the Meereenese champion in a marvellous display of cunning and combat prowess. Without his swift victory in the duel, it would have been much harder to take the city – she would have managed, of that she is certain, but it would have taken much more time, cost many more lives. She’s quite grateful to the leader of the Second Sons.

And she knows how to show her appreciation.

It’s been a while since she last laid with a man – there have been none since Khal Drogo died. Not because she hasn’t had offers, but because she’s denied them all. Most because they were vile men only wanting to say they’d fucked the Mother of Dragons, others because she didn’t desire them, and some – one, if she’s honest, always just the one – whom she simply cannot afford getting tangled up with. He is too important to her as a friend and advisor; if she laid with him and things went wrong, she’d never forgive herself, and if she laid with him and things went right, well, she’d still never forgive herself. If she wants to rule the Seven Kingdoms, she cannot be linked to a disgraced knight.

But Daario isn’t like any of the other men in her life. He serves her, he’s handsome enough, and she knows, though she does not care to dwell on it, that she’ll be able to leave him behind without remorse when the time comes.

For now, though, she’ll damn well make the most of it.

Afterwards, she sleeps soundly, content with the feeling of another body in her bed after so long.

Yet in the morning, her bubble is violently burst by a small, innocuous package lying on her doorstep, containing a masterfully crafted necklace, two large dragon fangs connected by a delicate chain. Its beauty lies in its simplicity, the bronze not in the least ostentatious, and Daenerys knows immediately who commissioned this piece for her, who would think to leave it here for her on this particular morning – the morning after the dark solstice, she only now realises with a jolt.

She tries to apologise to Ser Jorah at breakfast, but he’ll have none of it. “I am not entitled to your presence, Khaleesi, during the Long Night nor any other night.”

It’s unfair, she thinks, that she receives two gifts from him this solstice; the necklace, and his easily extended forgiveness.

She treasures them both equally.

And she avows to do better next year.

* * *

**Five**

* * *

She is painfully aware of her fifth solstice.

She spends it in the dark, despite offers from Missandei and Grey Worm and even Ser Barristan to sit out by the fire with her. She doesn’t want to sit by the fire. She wants to stay in the darkness of her chambers, with her windows wide open. If Ser Barristan’s faith rings true, she’ll gladly invite the Stranger into her room. She doesn’t think she has a soul left to take, not after it shrivelled so completely in the wake of the betrayal she never saw coming.

The Stranger doesn’t come, and she spends the night alone, with only the feeble light of the new moon to break through the darkness.

She hates that she gifts him her tears despite everything.

* * *

**Six**

* * *

On her sixth solstice, she lights a fire that is all-consuming.

The Temple of the Dosh Khaleen is her wood, the bodies of the unworthy Khals her kindling. The fire burns bright, burns _hot_ , the inferno blazing strongly throughout the night. She alone emerges from the flames, untouched, _unburnt_ , and not even the most stubborn of the Dothraki can deny her power any longer.

And when the fire burns out, the sun long since risen over the mountains, she is the Stallion Who Mounts the World. Not her son, not Drogo, not any man – it is _she_ who unites the Dothraki into a single humongous khalasar, and it is she who will lead them across the Narrow Sea to take back the throne that was stolen from her family.

She has everything she needs to sail for Westeros now.

Except for the one thing she needs most of all.

“You must send me away,” Jorah rasps – and he shows her the disease spreading up his arm, infectious, deadly, nigh impossible to cure.

And she can feel her heart breaking in her chest.

Because she did this to him. She sent him away, banished him – _twice_ – despite his pleas, despite his explanations, despite the fact that he’d proven his loyalty to her over and over and then once more. He was correct, she knows now; Tywin Lannister only sent her the pardon Robert Baratheon issued Jorah so that she would be compelled to rid herself of her most valuable asset, her surest defence, her dearest friend, her greatest lo-

Well.

It’s too late for that now, isn’t it? She’s made sure of it.

Jorah knows it too. “Tyrion Lannister was right,” he murmurs, his voice soft, kinder than she deserves. “I love you. I’ll always love you.”

She knows. She’s known for years, since that day in Qarth, when he proclaimed his wonder at her very existence, and she’s denied it all this time. He did her a great kindness, never outright telling her, never forcing her to reject him as a Queen ought to. And now, she knows, he’s not telling her because he expects a response, because it might gain him something – no, he’s telling her for _her_ benefit, to let her know he does, in fact, still love her. Even after everything, after his betrayal, after her ignorance, he still loves her. He will always love her.

It is the kindest gift he can give her under the circumstances.

And stars, she wants to say it back, she wants to embrace him, she wants to turn back time and forgive him as readily as she should have. But she can’t, she _can’t_ , she cannot touch him, cannot keep him, cannot help him – but there is something else she can do. Something else she can _give_.

Hope.

“I command you to find the cure, wherever it is in this world.” She can barely keep her voice from breaking. “I command you to heal yourself, and then return to me. When I take the Seven Kingdoms, I need you by my side.”

She can see the change in his posture, in his face, in his eyes, resignation making way for determination, and he departs with his head held high, not a doomed man seeking his final resting place, but a valiant knight on a quest for his Queen.

He’s given her everything, and all she could offer him in return was hope.

She hopes, too. She hopes it will be enough.

* * *

**Seven**

* * *

Her seventh solstice is the first she spends in Westeros.

They light the fire on the beach, the flames keeping the cold night air at bay. It’s just her and Missandei and Grey Worm tonight. She hadn’t cared to invite Tyrion and Varys; they’re not familiar with the Northern tradition of the solstice, and Daenerys has neither the heart nor the patience to explain it to them.

There is, however, someone currently on Dragonstone who knows exactly how the North celebrates the solstice – the King in the North himself, Jon Snow. A man who is honourable, and kind, and would likely appreciate an invitation to attend their humble celebration of a Northern holiday.

And yet she hasn’t extended that invitation to him.

It would feel wrong, somehow. Like someone’s intruding. Like someone’s _replacing_ Ser Jorah.

And no one can replace Ser Jorah.

Even if he’s likely to not ever return.

She tries not to dwell on that. She tries to smile and eat and be grateful for the people she does have in her life – and she is, by the stars but she is. She wouldn’t be anywhere without Missandei and Grey Worm and Ser Barristan, rest his soul. Yet tonight, during this holiday – _his_ holiday – her mind cannot help but wander to the one who introduced her to this tradition in the first place.

Grey Worm nudges her with his shoulder and hands her a piece of melon. “You should eat, my Queen,” he says. “A wise woman once told me this feast is for enjoying ourselves, and about being together.”

She takes the melon with the most genuine smile she can muster. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I just…”

The words stick in her throat, and Missandei takes her hand, offers her whatever comfort she can give. “Do you remember that story Ser Jorah told the last time we celebrated the solstice together?”

Despite herself, Daenerys cracks a smile at the memory. “I’m still not entirely sure if that was true.”

“Those words _are_ easy to confuse,” Missandei points out, smiling widely herself.

“Learning a new language is difficult,” Grey Worm adds. “I do not know about Dothraki, but I do know I would not be as fluent in the Common Tongue as I am without being taught by Missandei of Naath and Jorah the Andal.”

That is news to Daenerys. “Jorah helped teach you the Common Tongue?”

Grey Worm nods. “Missandei, she taught me vocabulary and sentence structure and grammar. But Jorah the Andal taught me the words I needed to… express myself.”

“He taught you the word ‘precious’,” Missandei remembers, “not long after we began our lessons.”

“Back then, he understood my feelings better than I did,” Grey Worm smiles, a soft smile he doesn’t wear often. “He knew you were precious to me already.”

Missandei ducks her head, no doubt to hide her blush, and Daenerys huffs a quiet laugh. “He’s always been good at that,” she murmurs, staring into the flames as if she can see his face in them. “He knows what makes people tick. I should have listened to his advice more often.”

If she had, he might have been here with them now.

“Jorah the Andal, he made me understand what ‘precious’ means when he said you are precious to him, my Queen,” Grey Worm tells her. “I knew it had to be a good word. He always looked at you as though you personally hung the moon in the air.”

“Looks,” Missandei corrects him, reflexively. “He always _looks_ at her that way.”

Grey Worm says something else, but Daenerys doesn’t hear, cranes her neck so she’s looking up at the moon, barely visible behind the clouds, and she tries her best not to cry. How long will it be before they start speaking of Ser Jorah in the past tense? How long will it be before they can be sure the illness took him and there is no more hope? How long will it be before she has to say goodbye?

“Did you know,” she murmurs, once she’s forced down the overwhelming urge to weep, “that some believe there were once two moons in the sky?”

Missandei shakes her head. “I have never heard such a story.”

“The moons were eggs,” Daenerys says, remembering Doreah’s words as though her old handmaiden is still sitting next to her, rubbing grease onto her sore palms. “One of them wandered too close to the sun, and it cracked from the heat. Thousands of dragons poured out of it, and they drank the sun’s fire.”

Grey Worm snorts an unexpected laugh. “Are you the Mother of Moons too, my Queen?”

Missandei’s hand flies to her mouth as she tries to stifle her giggles, and Daenerys blinks at him, caught completely off guard by her Commander’s rare attempt at a joke. The chuckle leaves her mouth unbidden, and before long she’s laughing along with Missandei, leaning against her friend as their shoulders shake with mirth.

The tears come unbidden, too, and she realises then that she might be able to survive without Ser Jorah Mormont at her side – but she will not stop missing him for as long as she lives.

But she won’t have to miss him. Not just yet.

For on the morrow, she is presented with a solstice gift she would not have thought possible.

“I return to your service, my Queen. If you’ll have me.”

* * *

**Eight**

* * *

Her eighth solstice is the worst night of her life.

She’s lived through many terrible things over the years. So many men have tried to kill her, she doesn’t remember all their names. She has been sold like a broodmare, she’s been chained and betrayed, raped and defiled. But she weathered it all, came back stronger each time, like a dragon rising from the ashes. She’s come a long, long way from the naïve little girl she was when Viserys arranged for her marriage to Khal Drogo.

And yet there is still a bit of that naïve girl inside of her heart, or she would never have foolishly believed she’d seen the worst the world has to offer.

 _This night_ is the worst the world has to offer.

That is a certainty she becomes painfully aware of when she can no longer hold onto Drogon, when she plummets from his back and falls hard onto the frozen ground below. She knows nothing but fire and blood and pain and terror and a cold so fierce it feels as though it has permanently settled in her bones.

She feels nothing like the Queen she is.

And she’s going to die here.

The first wight that spots the living amongst the dead barrels at her with alarming speed, and all she can do is crawl backwards, can’t even take the time to find her footing, can’t even die standing with whatever dignity one can have in the face of their impending doom, and as the wight raises its blade, she can only hope that Missandei is still safe down in the crypts, that Grey Worm is holding his own with the Unsullied, that Drogon and Rhaegal won’t be shot out of the sky like their brother was, that Ser Jorah is –

 _Here_.

The wight’s head comes clean off its shoulders, and then there are arms around her, pulling her up, pulling her along, and she doesn’t even have to look up to know it’s her knight who has come to her rescue, her brave, valiant knight. He looks like death warmed over, dirty and bloodied and haggard, but he’s alive, and he’s _here_ , and that is all she could ever want.

And it might be too much to ask.

They cannot escape the dead, cannot hope to break through the thicket of the Night King’s army to make it safely back to Winterfell. All they can do is stand and fight, and hope they can outlast the Night King.

Daenerys battles alongside Jorah with a ferocity that surprises even herself. She swings a heavy dragonglass blade at the wights Jorah can’t see coming, tries, stars but tries _so hard_ to keep him alive. He cannot die here. If Ser Jorah goes down, she goes down. If Ser Jorah dies, she dies. If Ser Jorah is taken from her again, she will _break_.

But she’s not a fighter, has never learned to wield a sword – why hasn’t she learned, why hasn’t she ever asked Ser Jorah or Ser Barristan to teach her? – and as many blows as she deflects, even more hit their mark, piercing his armour, stabbing him over and over again, but still he rises, still he stands, still he protects her with everything he has, with everything he _is_.

And only when the wights fall like puppets released from their strings does he collapse.

She holds him close as the first rays of sunlight appear on the horizon, her heart shattering at the sight of him, broken in her embrace. This solstice, he intends to give her the ultimate gift.

“I don’t want this,” she sobs, clinging to him as though she means to keep his very essence entrapped in her arms. “I don’t want this gift, Ser, I don’t want your life. It’s yours, it’s yours, please don’t give me your life, please keep it, _please_.”

She has no right to ask this of him, she knows, but she does regardless, selfishly, because she cannot bear to lose him. Not now, not again, not _ever_. And Ser Jorah, despite his laboured breathing, despite the blood seeping from his mouth, despite the many, many wounds that would have felled a lesser man hours ago, listens. He fights for his life as fiercely as he’d fought for hers, struggles to give her his survival instead, and Daenerys can only hold onto him tightly while she waits for help.

Miraculously, he keeps his life that day.

And the next.

And the next.

And the next.

The Maesters are near certain he’ll live by the end of the first week, though they cannot say whether or not he’ll ever open his eyes again. Daenerys spends every moment she can at his bedside, talking to him, holding his hand, making sure the Maesters are doing their job as well as they should. But she also busies herself with the upcoming war – stars, but she so damn _sick_ of fighting – against Cersei Lannister, because the better she keeps her mind occupied, the less it dwells on the ever increasing likelihood of Ser Jorah never waking again.

Like Khal Drogo, he is alive yet not, but she knows she won’t have the strength to put Jorah out of his misery should that time come. Not him, _not him_ , anyone but him.

“Come back to me,” she implores him every night before she leaves, and once more when she returns in the morning.

And as always, he obeys his Queen’s command.

“Khaleesi,” is the first word out of his mouth, his voice weak after weeks of disuse, and she’s at his side in an instant, her hands on his upper arm, assuring him of her presence.

“I’m here, Ser,” she whispers, unable to keep the tears from her eyes. He’s warm under her hands, his breathing laboured but steady, and she nearly collapses at the sight of his blue eyes, clouded over but bright and full of _life_. “I’m here.”

A faint smile tugs at his lips. “Good,” he says, and then he’s gone again.

He wakes periodically over the course of the next few days, more often than not disoriented, sometimes frantic, but always, without fail, seeking her, wanting to know if she is alright. She spends most of her waking hours in his presence now, and sometimes some of her sleeping hours as well, and when she must go, she never strays far. 

She worries for him, still; his fits have caused him to rip his stitches more than once now, and he’s healing slower than expected, much slower than she would like. But then she also knows that the mere fact that he’s still here is a miracle in and of itself, and she will wait for him, if not patiently, for as long as it takes.

Nevertheless, it is a tremendous relief to see him awake and sitting up when she returns to his room after a brief meeting with her council.

“Ser Jorah?” she asks, her voice so very small. She hardly dares to hope. 

His answering smile is more than she could even have hoped for. “Khaleesi,” he says, and though he still sounds hoarse, his voice is strong, his words clear. “You’re alright.”

He sounds so relieved, and she’s not sure whether she wants to laugh or cry. “Thanks to you.”

His smile fades, a frown furrowing his brow. “I’m afraid I don’t remember much about the battle,” he confesses. “I recall we fought the Night King’s army, but…”

He trails off, frustrated, and she moves to his bedside, takes one of his hands between her own. “We won, Jorah,” she tells him. “You saved my life.”

“I was… hurt,” he says slowly, as the memories return to him. “And you…”

“Wept,” she supplies, smiling despite the tears once again pooling in her eyes. “I was not – _am_ not – prepared to lose you yet.”

He squeezes her hand, and she looks up to find his eyes misty, too. “I have not been dismissed,” he murmurs. “And I know better than to walk away from my Queen.”

She huffs a laugh that sounds more like a hiccough – and before she can question herself, before she can let these feelings of relief and happiness and love be overshadowed once again by doubt and fear and logic, she leans in and presses a soft, chaste kiss to his lips.

He keeps his eyes closed long after she’s pulled back, and when he opens them again to find her still at his side, his lips curl into a strange, lopsided grin. “Forgive me,” he says, to her utter bewilderment. “I must still be dreaming.”

“This is no dream, Ser,” she assures him, but even as the words leave her mouth, she knows he won’t believe her. And truly, what reason has she ever given him to think otherwise? He has laid his heart bare before her time and time again, while she desperately shielded her own, more concerned with status than with love.

But no longer.

Daenerys grasps his chin and tugs him towards her, and their next kiss is nothing like the first.

It’s _intense_ , desperate and hungry; she kisses him as though it is the last thing she will ever do, and once the initial shock of it has worn off, Jorah lets out a noise low in his throat, guttural and needy. His hand settles on the back of her neck, fingers carding through her hair as he pulls her closer, as close as possible and perhaps closer still, and when they break apart, his chest is heaving, his pupils blown wide, eyes round as saucers.

“Not a dream,” he echoes her words, his voice barely more than a whisper.

She smiles fondly at her knight, her heart, though palpitating, now finally at peace. If there was ever any doubt whether or not she belongs with him, that kiss has blown it right out of the water.

“My heart is yours, Jorah.”

It’s a bit late for a solstice gift, perhaps. But she knows he will treasure it all the same.

Now and forever.

* * *

**Nine**

* * *

Her ninth solstice will forever be her favourite.

“ _Dracarys_!”

Dragonfire engulfs the massive pile of wood and kindling that’s been built over the course of several weeks, setting it ablaze just as the last rays of the sun’s light disappear behind the horizon.

A deafening roar of approval rings in her ears as the five hundred inhabitants of Bear Island synchronously raise their mugs in a toast – to the solstice, to the light, to the food and the drink and the warmth of the fire, to Bear Island, to each other, to family and friendship and loyalty and love.

Daenerys leans into her husband’s side and sips her mulled wine. “You did not exaggerate,” she says. She couldn’t stop smiling if she wanted too. “This is… magical.”

Not in the literal sense, perhaps – not like stepping into flames untouched and hatching dragons from stone eggs – but no less real, no less powerful. The overwhelming sense of unity that the Bear Islanders exude is like nothing she’s ever felt before. These men and women are all different, each and every one of them, yet they would all join one another by the fire to wait out the darkness. If that isn’t magical, she doesn’t know what is.

Jorah tightens his arms around her, his eyes gleaming brightly in the light of the flames. “I never thought I’d get to experience this again,” he says softly. “And I never dreamed I’d get to experience this with _you_.”

“Not a dream,” she reminds him once again, and he laughs, a deep rumble reverberating through his chest.

“Not a dream,” he repeats dutifully, and he kisses her as though he’s still reminding himself of that fact.

And here, encircled in her husband’s arms, a mug of mulled wine in her hands and a bonfire cackling nearby, her children circling the island up above, Daenerys feels lighter than she has in years, perhaps all her life. She won’t want a solstice gift on the morrow.

Because she already has everything she could ever want, and more.

She is happy, and she is _home_.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: for the first, oh, three drafts of this, I kept referring to the solstice as the _winter_ solstice, even though seasons don't work that way in Westeros, whoopsie.
> 
> Also, if there is one thing from the books I really missed in the show it was _the peach_ , so catch me sneaking it in here.
> 
> I'm so glad I got to take part in this collection, the Jorleesi fandom has got to be the most loving little corner of the internet! <3 Tomorrow we'll get back to ladymelodrama's gorgeous fic, I already can't wait! :D


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